


you wear white and i'll wear out the words "I love you"

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's been planning this for centuries, He's just waiting for the Right Time, M/M, Marriage Proposal, but he never thought he'd actually get the chance to propose, this is a lot sappier than the summary implies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24212083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: (or Crowley struggles to find the right time and place to pop the question)Of all the places, circumstances, and positions to propose to his angel—It had to be this one."So," Aziraphale started, brows furrowed with confusion from between Crowley's legs. "That bulge in your pants doesn't just mean you're happy to see me?"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 158





	you wear white and i'll wear out the words "I love you"

He’d known Aziraphale’s ring size since Rome, though the need for this knowledge wouldn’t arise until millennia later. Far better than tossing apples at him centuries prior, which Crowley was sure wouldn’t have been well-received by the angel.

He had the ring itself since the tradition was popularized and changed the stone, the metal, and the inscriptions at least twice every decade. He’d known Aziraphale’s favorite flavor of cake, the very swoons and swells of romantic melodies that made his angel’s heart sing with joy and float with love. He’d known that Aziraphale had long wanted to travel East since before its industrialization, though London remained his home and heart, and, not long after the entire mess of the Armageddon’t—

Crowley knew, with absolute certainty, that Aziraphale loved him, loved earth, and loved their life together.

And Crowley, with absolute certainty, wanted a life together with Aziraphale.

The thought had been lurking in the darkest crevices of his heart, ashen and burnt, where most secrets seeped in its cracks. Of course he’d known he loved Aziraphale—he’d known his own heart _since_ Rome. But the very _possibility_ of having that love actualized—much less _returned_ —had been such a preposterous, laughable, _impossible_ thought that…

To even wonder, to even wish, would have wrought him nothing but pain.

But that was something that Crowley couldn’t help. When the wretched emotion had made itself known, had seeded and rooted itself deeply within Crowley’s heart, there was no going back. And now, many millennia later, it was no longer just the torturous squeeze of thorns driving deep into Crowley’s chest at the thought of a life with Aziraphale—

It was waking to the sight of his angel (yes, _his_ ) in his ridiculous nightgown and equally ridiculous little glasses perched on his adorable nose as he flipped through the pages of a love-worn novel in Crowley’s bed; it was meeting for lunch without his angel ducking at the sight of every American in a gray, luxurious business suit; it was being able to hold his angel’s hand as they strolled through St. James park to feed the ducks, recycling old banters and trying new, honest conversations (“I thought you looked rather ravishing in that fancy little petticoat of yours. Still not a good idea to wear it during a revolution, though.” “Oh, thank you dear. I rather thought you—you— _good lord_ , your hair back then reminded me of two somersaulting weasels.” “You really _are_ a bastard, aren’t you?” “I’ve learned from the very best, I’ll have you know.”); it was kissing him _good morning, hello, be right back_ , and _goodnight_.

It was a possibility. A very, very _real_ possibility.

Now…now all Crowley had to do was _ask_.

* * *

Crowley prided himself in his brilliance. It wasn’t just the Pride either—he knew he had more creativity that likely all the forces of Hell combined—

(still didn’t hold a candle to Aziraphale’s wit when his angel set his mind on something, but that’s a discussion for another time.)

Which was _why_ he had every bit of confidence that when he enacted his master plan, it would surely sweep his angel off his feet.

…Granted, if he _had_ a master plan to begin with.

Because lo and behold, Crowley, who had been squirreling his angel’s preferences and tastes, ring size, suit size, _shoe size—_ never actually thought he’d be able to _use_ this information in the most important way possible. And thus—

He was scrambling.

He threw idea after idea out— _We could go to Rome; take him out on our first date again—wait, did he even know that was our first date?_ , forged bloody _mood boards_ from digital inspiration on social media— _Ugh, this all looks terribly tasteless. This looks nice, but I know for a fact that Aziraphale hasn’t gone swimming since the 1800s for some incident or other—_ and nearly broke down and ran to the bookshop to propose right then and there just to get it over with.

But _no_.

His angel deserved better than that.

“ _We could have a picnic…dinner at the Ritz,_ ” Crowley mocked, turning over in despair. “Go—Sata— _SOMEONE-DAMNIT_. Why didn’t I propose _then_ …It would have been perfect.” He let out another groan. “Right, right, great thinking there, Crowley—just drop the proposal to your best friend _after_ he was cut off and nearly killed by his abusive family and workplace, _real_ romantic.”

He sighed, peeling himself off the ceiling where he’d somehow ended up. It was getting late and _damnit_ , he promised to take Aziraphale to that play tonight, didn’t he?

Crowley, once upright, glared hard at the ring on his desk. It had been taunting him for the past month and he knew the niggling thoughts at the back of his mind, the _compulsion_ to open it up, scrutinize it, to once again deem it worthy enough for his angel, wouldn’t let up until he saw it where it belonged: on his angel’s marriage hand.

Crowley snatched the box and, with some difficulty, pocketed it.

(He was actually surprised these pants came with pockets.)

Fine. If inspiration won’t come to him, then he’ll come to inspiration. Humans always went on and on about knowing when the _time was right_ or what have you. Sure, it might be more…spontaneous than he’d like…

(Crowley liked plans. Plans kept him and his angel alive since the dawn of their arrangement, even when they didn’t always pan out the way he wanted them to)

But, as his angel showed him back at the airbase, sometimes a little spontaneity was just what he needed to get the job done.

* * *

He could have proposed at the theater. _Hamlet_ had been Aziraphale’s favorite because _Crowley_ made it into a smashing success just for him. It would have been romantic— a reminder that there wasn’t anything Crowley wouldn’t do to make him happy. But instead, he just watched on with half-amusement, half-embarrassment as his angel cheered and encouraged the actors, rather loudly, from their seats.

_(“Angel, darling, love of my life, you’re going to get us kicked out if you keep that up.” “I-I’m the love of your life?” “Obviously, but also, not the point.”)_

He could have proposed at their bench at St. James Park: right where they used to meet in secret and business and thinly veiled ventures to simply be in each other’s company—a reminder of how far they’ve come and a promise for what’s to come. But instead, they just fed the ducks, Crowley listening on with not-so-silent affection as Aziraphale berated himself for feeding them bread for years when it turned out it had been bad for them all along.

 _(“I brought peas this time!” “Angel, I’m sure the ducks would have appreciated any old thing.” “Yes, well, I still want it to be_ good _for them, Crowley.” “All right, fair enough.”)_

He could have proposed at the Ritz, gotten them a nice hotel room to ah…freshen up (after making a mess out of each other), enjoyed their meal and basked in the romantic atmosphere— a reminder of the first day of the rest of their lives after freeing one another and paving a road ahead where they could be together, belong together at last. He could have even put the ring in his angel’s dessert—if the ring made it out intact. But instead, Crowley dined and wined with the most perfect being (for him) created in all this universe, and basked in that lovely, perfect moment, all worries, anxieties—and the ring—forgotten.

 _(“I love you, Crowley.” “I…I…oh—_ fuck _—” “It’s all right, Crowley…” “I just…sometimes…” “It’s okay, love…” “I’ve wanted to hear you for so long—” “You’ll hear me every day, Crowley.” “Angel, I love you, I’ve been in love with you for—forever, it feels like.” “I know, Crowley. I know…and I’m ready to hear it now.”)_

He could have proposed in so many different places, so many different times, and in so many different ways—all romantic, all with grand, sweeping gestures, and all matter of symbolism and meaning behind each instance.

And yet, the primordial, primitive, snake-brain of his—decided that _now_ would be the time.

“Ah—ah—angel, _angel_ ,” Crowley gasped, writhing against the delicious friction as Aziraphale maddeningly teased his Effort from within the constricting confines of his trousers.

“Yes, dearest?” he smiled, looking quite at home on his knees on the Persian rug of the bookshop’s backroom.

“You right bastard— _ah_!” Crowley choked off a scream as Aziraphale mouthed his clothed cock, warm, wet heat so close yet so far from where he needed it most. He fruitlessly attempted to shimmy out of his jeans, buck into that lovely, inviting mouth, and give his angel a taste of what happens when you press a demon’s buttons in all the right ways.

“I know virtues aren’t your specialty, Crowley, but you really should have some patience,” his angel tsk’d, eyes gleaming with mischief and Crowley fell impossibly deeper in love with this incorrigible, chaotic _ethereal_ being. 

And that. _That_ was exactly what his snake-brain was waiting for. “Oh, _fuck_ angel—marry me—”

Then that heat was gone. It took maybe a second or two for the words that had just tumbled straight out of his mouth to register, but before Crowley could internally agonize in horror at his _abso-fucking-lutely shite timing_ —

“I—I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

And what was Crowley supposed to do? _Back out_? Deny he said anything? Nope, not this time, not on his life.

Not anymore.

“Marry me,” he wheezed out, the embarrassment not quite catching up to him as he miracled the box to his hand (and thusly relieving some of that extra pressure in his trousers), and presented it to Aziraphale with all the grace of a boneless octopus.

(wait, octopodes don’t have bones do they?)

Best case scenario, Aziraphale disregarded the fact that Crowley just popped the question right before a well-anticipated blowjob. Worst-case scenario, he would have berated the demon for the _abso-fucking-lutely shite_ timing. But instead, he was met with: "So," Aziraphale started, brows furrowed with confusion from between Crowley's legs. "That bulge in your pants doesn't just mean you're happy to see me?"

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, valiantly attempting to keep calm despite the gnawing anxiety at his chest; _great_ , the gears were still turning in his angel’s pretty little head from the shock. “You know I’m always happy to see you on your knees for me, but I believe I asked you a question.” He waved the box in front of him and then it all clicked into place.

Crowley could tell by the bright sparkle in those sea-storm eyes and the sweet, bashful smile on his lips. “Then shouldn’t you be the one on your knees? Or—one, rather, I think is the human way of doing it now.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley muttered, wobbling as he stood from his favorite couch in all of Aziraphale’s shop. As tradition dictated, Crowley got down on one knee, opened his mouth to say, “Aziraphale, will you—”

And was immediately met with, _“Yes!”_

Crowley tumbled backwards onto the couch, and armful and lapful of his ecstatic angel, and finally _engaged_.

* * *

“Oh…it’s so lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed, holding up the ring to the light.

Crowley hummed, lacing their fingers together, and— yes he was right all along, he should have never doubted his tastes to begin with.

The ring was _perfect_ on his angel.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, dimples, and chin, and if the rest of their lives could be even just a fraction of how perfect this moment was, Crowley, for the first time in a long time, was looking forward to eternity.

“Even _if_ you did propose right before I was to initiate fellatio,” Aziraphale giggled.

Crowley sighed, feigning annoyance despite the way his heart (not quite-so-ashen, and not-quite-so burnt) thudded painfully with love. “You could not have said that any worse.” He pulled Aziraphale close, smothering the giggles at his expense with a tender, loving kiss. He drew back, smirking at the lovestruck look on his angel’s face, plain as day, unguarded and open for Crowley to see. “Besides, could you have done any better?”

“Well, I certainly could,” he teased.

Crowley raised a brow, a challenging smile on his lips. “Oh really, now? C’mon then, let’s hear it.”

“All right, then!” His angel cleared his throat. “I would have, for one, proposed on October 21st—”

“Day the Earth was created, not bad,” Crowley admitted.

“And on that day, asked you to come away with me to a little trip—”

“Ooh, going on a little trip, are we?” The demon chuckled. “Where to? Tadfield? France? Rome?—”

“The Garden.”

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat. Aziraphale gave him a small, triumphant smile, and continued. “Of course I still have access to it, dear. I _was_ one of its guardians after all.” His angel admired the ring once more, voice soft as he continued, “I would have brought a picnic of course, and suggested, if you hadn’t already—”

“To have it on the wall,” Crowley whispered. “Where we first met.”

“Where our journey began,” Aziraphale added. “And I would have—I would have let you know that _never_ in my wildest dreams would I have thought, back then, up there on that wall, that I would have found…the person that my heart belongs to.” He looked back at Crowley, eyes wet and smile wobbling on his sweet mouth and Crowley wanted to just take this lovely, lovely being in his arms and never let go. “And that through this long, long journey since Earth began, I’m ever-grateful that all my roads lead back to you.” 

“Angel…”

“And then, I would get down on one knee and ask you,” he turned to face Crowley, a tear or two slipping down his cheeks, “Oh? My what’s that in your ear?”

Crowley furrowed his brow. “Wha—oh, _no,_ angel, not one of your—”

“Ooooh, what’s this?” But before Crowley could swap his hand out of his way, something bright, gleaming, and poorly concealed in his angel’s hand caught his eye.

Any and all teasing of his _fiancé’s_ failed sleight of hand fled Crowley’s mouth at the sight of the gold band between his fingers. He must have looked quite the sight, gaping mouth and nothing coming out, but Aziraphale only chuckled.

“You always did go faster than me, Crowley,” he murmured, placing the band right on his demon’s marriage finger, smiling at the _perfect_ fit it made. “But that’s all right.” He pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his fiancé’s lips. “All my roads lead to you, after all.”


End file.
